


Come to Me, Angel

by Phantomholdsmyheart2743



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Christine is conflicted, Erik Has Feelings, Erik has Issues, Erik's tongue should be illegal, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Lots goes on, Love, Masturbation, Romance, Shameless Smut, Some Plot, Violins, horny christine, they have sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26548981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomholdsmyheart2743/pseuds/Phantomholdsmyheart2743
Summary: I’d begun to lose track of the number of nights I woke whimpering his name. My own searching fingers were not enough to stop the ache, nothing could alleviate my desire. E/C COMPLETE
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 26
Kudos: 96





	Come to Me, Angel

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I felt that we all needed some smut to cheer us up, and this is definitely smut. Please review, I’d love to know what you think. 😊

I loved him. I had to love him. There was no other explanation for the warmth that bubbled in my chest when he smiled. Or the way I’d replay his words in my mind. But there was something else too. Desire. It had discovered my weakness was Erik, and since then I had not been able to sleep in peace.

I’d begun to lose track of the number of nights I woke whimpering his name. My own searching fingers were not enough to stop the ache, nothing could alleviate my desire. No matter how much I pinched and tugged upon my breasts, or how fervently I stroked—I wanted. I could feel the absence of him as I plunged my fingers—too short, too feminine—into my most secret places.

My imagination supplied images of him—fueled by the secret glance I had caught of his torso several weeks prior. I had arrived early for my lesson. It was an accident. It was torture. Water running down his scarred back as long-fingered hands toweled his dark hair—unruly in a way that I had never seen it. Towel low upon his slender hips. Thin, yes. But not frail. Not Erik, no, Erik was strong and wiry. I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like for him to be above me. Pushing into me, touching me—and God help me, I tried to imagine what it would feel like. 

I wanted to know. I wanted more than anything to know what it would feel like for him to hum against my womanhood, for him to whisper my name against my most secret places. I wanted to know the circumference and length of his cock—in my hands, in my mouth, in my body. I wanted Erik.

All of this was new to me. I was not completely innocent. I had tried self-pleasure once or twice before I had met Erik, but my desire had been general then. Now I had its causation in front of me. His beautiful voice, his fingers. Him. Erik. Desire now had a name and it was on my lips every time I touched myself. Erik.

Oh, how those hands tormented me in their graceful motions across the keys of a piano, or bare and jumping the violin’s strings as his face furrowed into an expression that seemed almost profane. It looked like ecstasy. I wanted to know what his face looked like as he achieved crisis. What color would his beautiful eyes turn, what sounds would fight their way up that golden throat? What would his perfect voice sound like calling my name? What would those pale fingers look like dripping with my juices? Would he suck me from his flesh, his cheeks hollowing out around those beautiful fingers.

Erik’s hands. Erik’s hands that had never dared touch me beyond hesitant posture corrections, or a steadying handhold as I stepped from the gondola to the dock.

I watched him from my place upon the sofa. I had been feigning interest in the book upon my lap for nearly an hour, all the while staring at him. The book had become an unnecessary decoy once he had picked up his violin. His mouth hung partially open, and the wickedest parts of me longed to seize the fullness of his bottom lip between my teeth and tug. I wanted to drag my lips down the revealed skin of his neck and collarbone, suck on his pulse as his fingers found my center.

Erik.

His body taunt with music. The bow skidded across the strings so quickly that the horsehair was snapping. And all the while the fingertips on his hand pulsed and pressed at the neck of the violin. All the while, I watched the quiver in them. The delicate, yet deliberate way he coaxed notes from the instrument. And I was jealous of wood and horsehair and wire. I was jealous of a violin. In the firelight, his white mask shone orange and gold. I wanted him to take it off.

I wanted to know if it made a difference, yet I knew it wouldn’t; even his face had a place in my fantasies. Clenched between my thighs, nuzzling down my torso, textural under my searching fingers. Thank God he could not read my mind! He would be appalled. Disgusted even. He called me ‘my child’ and ‘ma petite’ and all other manner of diminutive nicknames that cemented my youth and alienated me from sexual possibility. He saw me as too young, too childish and pure. If he knew how I wanted him, he would laugh…or cry with shame to know that I had been thus corrupted.

I was a cliché, a tragic student pining for a favorite teacher. I wanted to please him like I wanted to breathe, and it had been awhile since I only wanted to please him musically.  
Sin? I didn’t even care anymore that it was a sin. If he resembled the devil who so often ravished women in paintings or books of cautionary tales—well those women seemed fine to me. I couldn’t stop crying out his name into pillows as he slept a hall away. My rapid heartbeat seeming so loud that I was sure that it or my moans would wake him. Erik.

He was perfect. He breathed within the composition, a single organism: he and the violin. Some obscure part of my brain screamed that all of this was wrong, that I shouldn’t want a monster…yet I couldn’t see Erik as a monster. Not anymore. Not after seeing the way he swung a tea towel over his shoulder as he did the dishes. Or after hearing the careful way he asked me to stay for dinner, stay the night, stay. I couldn’t see him as anything but Erik, and seeing him like this made me also see him as a man. Not an angel. Not a teacher. Not when every motion of his body reminded me how corporeal he was. How present and alive.

A virile, alive, desirous man. 

A gasp slipped past my lips as he struck a high note that was so visceral in its vibrato that I felt it. Grateful for both the blanket and the book upon my lap I squeezed my legs together. I squirmed, drawing my knees up to disguise it. Erik. He was oblivious. I kept staring, and saw the slight curve of a smile. 

Maybe he wasn’t oblivious? But maybe I was too hopeful, too overheated and aroused to even tell anymore. I could hardly trust my instincts when they were to lift my nightdress and spread my legs for his view. Maybe if he saw how I burned he would offer to extinguish the flames. It was mad. I was mad. I was desperate.

“Erik,” I heard myself call in a tone that I had never let him hear. “Come sit with me.” 

Madness! Sheer madness, but the violin came to a screeching halt.

He came over, and I noted with delight that he did not replace his gloves. 

“Sit with me.” I said, and he did. He sat by me stiffly, and in my madness I stretched my legs out again, across his lap. Both of us lost a gasp. My heart was racing. He did not know where to put his hands, and settled for laying them across my knees. He was so hesitant in this, a far cry from his confidence with instruments. I wanted him all the more for the polite deference in his gaze, for the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. I wanted his mask to be gone, yet at the same time I was entranced by the way light bounced off of it. I was entranced by the stark difference between its white glow and the darkness of his hair.

I was completely absorbed by him.

“It is hard to know what you are thinking.” His voice—oh his golden voice—and his golden eyes. The golden glow of the fire. The heat blooming between us.

“I hardly know myself sometimes.” A bold-faced lie, though I could hardly dare to tell him the truth. The touch of his hands seared me even through the blanket, I dared to set one of my hands atop his, sitting up to lean against him. Wide, innocent eyes. I hated myself for the charade when his proximity made me ache. I felt so warm. Surely I was bright red with my shame. He must know? He had to know.

“Christine…” He purred, giving himself away in every syllable! Oh how he loved me—I could hear it in the way he lingered on every vowel, his beautiful voice softening the consonants. In his mouth, my name was music. It was safe. But did he want me?

If I asked, he would give me anything that I desired—and how tempting that idea was with my head still buzzing from his music! But would that be fair to him? 

I was reckless, desperate. I did not want to hurt him, that was the last thing I wanted. Not when his smiles had become more frequent, and his manner more familiar. I treasured him. I wanted more. I wanted. Oh God, my Erik! But I didn’t know if I was strong enough to stay, if loving him would be enough. His hands trailed delicately over the shape of my knees. Gentle. I squirmed further into his lap. He lost a moan. 

Frozen, I registered the hard length of him against the back of my thighs. 

“Forgive me!” He exclaimed, and tried to move away. Inside my heart was screaming victory. Erik wanted me! He loved me and he wanted me. Perhaps it was the music that still lingered in my mind, but I found myself throwing my arms around his neck, inhaling the sandalwood and ink smell of him. My angel, my devil, my Erik.

Something snapped in me as the tendrils of his hair curled beneath my fingertips. I could see the tension in him as I nuzzled into him.

“What has gotten into you?” He asked huskily. That usually golden voice dragged from the depths of him.

“Erik.” I looked at him, willing him to understand. “Erik,” I said again, pressing myself to him. His eyes flickered with something dangerous, and with a growl he seized me. At last! I pressed my lips to his neck, and he moaned. But my euphoria was short-lived. He pushed me aside with such suddenness that I yelped. When I had righted myself, he was standing by the fire. Watching me.

“What game is this, Christine?” He asked. Danger in his tone. I shook my head.

“Not a game. Never a game. I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

“Tempting a monster with satisfaction,” He hissed, stalking towards me. “Every word you speak, every blush.” His fingertips ghosted over my cheek and I shuddered. “See? You are afraid of me.”

There was such sad finality in his tone that I found myself seizing him by the forearm. “No.” I said, “No I am not afraid of you. The opposite.” I parted my thighs slightly, so minutely that only Erik—ever attentive to my every motion—would notice.

“Do not lie to me!” He thundered, wrenching himself from my grasp. “Remember who it is you touch.” He tore his mask away, and I did not flinch to see the twisted features of his face in the firelight.

“Come here, Erik.” I commanded breathlessly. Unaccustomed to being told what to do, Erik’s mouth fell open in surprise. He came towards me gently, head bowed. “I’m not trying to tempt you—well, I am—but not to be cruel.”

A glint of understanding entered his gaze, “It’s the music.” He said, “I shouldn’t have played—"

“No, it’s you. I want you. I want you so much that it steals my sleep and keeps me up til dawn.” The implications of my words stole over his face. The line of his jaw goes taunt, the pulse in his neck jumping.

“Christine, you do not know what you are saying—" His knuckles are tensed with the repressed urge to touch me. 

“I do know. I know we are more to each other than we admit to. For weeks things have been different. Since the night Raoul asked me to dinner and I refused. Erik, believe me.”

He dropped to the ground by my feet, pressing his forehead to my knees. “Christine, do not toy with my affections. I will not survive the loss of you. I would burn the world to keep you.”

My heart thundered at his confession; the adrenaline-fueled waft of satisfaction that pulsed through me was unexpected, but not unwanted.

“I want to be yours. I am yours. I am yours.” I parted my legs, and he surged forward to seize me. I hoped that he believed me. So close that we share the same breaths, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth.

“Do you love me?” He asked, and I whimpered as his clever hands traced circles on my back.

“Yes!” I breathed, because it was true, and his mouth covered mine. Clumsily at first, but Erik had always been a quick learner. He kissed me like he wanted to devour me, and I let him, sliding onto his lap like the harlot I was. Straddling his hardness, I rolled my hips against him. His hands slid up my ankles to my thighs and I keened to feel their calloused beauty against bare skin. He still wasn’t close enough. 

Forget chastity, Erik was my new religion. His fingers slipped between us; his hands were shaking. I loved him for it. I slid my own hands down to seize his, planning to guide them to the source of my ache. He immediately stopped.

“Forgive me, I was overcome!” I kissed him silent, already addicted to the taste of him.

“Erik, don’t stop.” I took one of his hands and pressed it to the wetness beneath my thighs. “Please.” 

His pupils dilated to feel the proof of my desire, “Fuck.” He said. I had never heard Erik swear, and the desperation of it excited me. Before I could say another word he had gathered me into his arms. My hands tugged at the buttons of his waistcoat. His shirt. I wanted his skin, and my lips worshipped every piece I found, hands running over the scars I had only seen once before. He deposited me gently on his bed, and stood over me gasping. Like he couldn’t believe his luck. I couldn’t believe mine; I wanted to taste every scar on his chest, and I reached for him as I shrugged out of my dressing gown. I removed my nightdress, leaving myself in only a chemise. 

“Oh Christine,” Erik said, “My Christine. My love, my music.” He purred coming closer and closer. Moving his way up my body with touches, pushing my stockings down and replacing them with kisses. The roughness of his deformity scratched pleasantly across my skin. I burned. I wanted to feel all of him, and seized him to pull him closer. His hands toyed at my hips, my breasts. He teased me where I burned most. I ran my hands over every part of him I could reach. I wanted more. More. Even as his fingers teased circles around my desire. I pushed them downwards, and he found my core. Stroking and stretching.

“You are mine. My beautiful one, ma petite.” The endearment felt more like a threat when his fingers were inside me. When his tongue and lips teased at my breasts. I came apart to his voice whispering how he loved me, and I still burned for more.

“Erik, Erik!” I cried, delirious as he thrust his hips into the mattress to alleviate his own ache. He was not done with me. I saw the triumph of my climax even as he sucked my juices from his fingers. It was positively indecent, the way he tasted me. I wanted him to taste me for real, and squirmed beneath him.

“No mortal deserves such a gift, my Christine.” Before I could say anything more, his fingers were teasing me again, and his mouth joined them. I saw sparks behind my eyelids, the black satin beneath me wrinkled with my thrashing as Erik’s beautiful tongue took me to a place that I had never been before. His hands steadied my hips as I squirmed, sure I would die from the pleasure of it. I broke again, whimpering his name with my hands tangled in his hair.

Sated for the moment, I was hungry for the sight of him. The length of him barely held back by the material of his undergarments. I knelt on the bed with trembling legs, kissed a trail from his throat to the jumping muscles of his stomach. The growls that he emitted went straight to my core. I had never been so wet, so ready, even as my womanhood still faintly pulsed with my climax. I pushed him down, and pressed myself to him.

“My Erik. Mine.” I kissed him possessively, having little doubt that he believed me now. His hands slid beneath my chemise, lifting it upwards until it was gone and I was bare before him. Atop him.

“Goddess,” he whispered, and I felt like one as his hips bucked beneath me. I wanted more. I wanted skin. Suddenly shy, I touched his cock. He lost a groan.  
“I am at yours,” he whispered. “Do with me what you will.”

That was all I needed to hear. His groans echoed through the air as I touched him. He was big, and my cheeks flushed just thinking that about the man I wanted more than anything. I may not have had a lot of practical knowledge about matters such as these, but I used Erik’s moans as a compass for pressure and speed. Moisture beaded at his tip, and I licked it greedily. Kissed my way up and down the length of him until he was seeping.

“You’ll be the death of me.” His forearm over his eyes obscured his full expression, but I wanted to see him lose control. I stroked his hip.

“Erik,” I said, and he looked at me. “I love you.” Then I took as much of his cock that I could into my mouth and I hummed a particularly passionate line from his opera.  
Hot cum flooded my mouth in spurts; I swallowed his pleasure, delighting in the power I held. The Opera Ghost, undone by my mouth! His face in that moment was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen, and it was mine. All mine. His rapture was mine, and I was the cause of it. I was afraid of how well that pleased me. 

“I want you.” I said, releasing him gently and laying my head on his chest. I wanted him to know that I meant in more ways than the passion we had just shared. “I want you with me. Always.” He was so warm now, not cold as he so often was. He pressed a kiss to my brow, trembling hands stroked my back, my hair. Everything that he could reach. I curled my leg over him.

“I do not deserve you, petite. What a woman you are to love such a creature. Such a face.”

“You are mine.” I vowed, peppering his face with kisses. Marred and unmarred, all loved beneath my lips. I tasted his tears, and held him closer. “I love you.”  
Erik’s cock twitched beneath me, and I burned anew.

“Forgive my eagerness.” He said in response to my questioning look. I smiled.

“Erik, you have no idea the depraved things I’ve imagined us doing.” He choked on a gasp as I whispered them into his ear. Before I could finish, I was beneath him and he was everywhere, all around me.

“Marry me.” He said, and all I could do was nod my agreement because he was rocking against me.

“This may hurt, forgive me.” He kissed me hard, and pushed into me in one harsh thrust.

My walls fluttered around him, and I closed my eyes tight against the pain. He was still until I nodded. We rocked together until I forgot the world. I forgot how to sing, I forgot Paris. I forgot everything but his name, and I called it over and over again as I met his golden gaze, until there was no higher plane to ascend to. Until we crashed back to earth together. Ready to begin our life together.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know your thoughts! Reviews feed the author, and the author is hungry. Also very insecure because I think this is the most graphic I've ever gotten.


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